Match Made

And rest in the ridges I’ve found around
its edges, shaped like twisting teeth. We’ll move
the couches to the far side, if there’s room--
which I expect there won’t be.
My cherry-flavored desk and plastic plants
I pity, as they bask in the lamps which
we bought at the flea market by mistake.

Eventually, we’ll melt together.
As our legs rub against each other, though,
we won’t remember which skin is our own.
Each match will become a limb and
at night, I’ll grasp their backs, thinking it’s you
and caress their ends until I’ve blistered.